Unwanted Time
by HallucinatingDreams
Summary: Was this the point of the War, to be thanked by being spit in the face and told it had been the War heroes’ duties to sacrifice, to be noble and valiant, to…die? Draco Malfoy contemplates the end of the War. Hinted DMalfoyHPotter. NonCANON.


**Unwanted Time**

**Disclaimer: **Characters and setting are not mine.

**Summary: **Was this the point of the War, to be thanked by being spit in the face and told it had been the War heroes' duties to sacrifice, to be noble and valiant, to…die? Draco contemplates the end of the War. Hinted DMalfoyHPotter.

…

His breath escapes the burgundy scarf in strings, the color of hoarfrost against gray skies and whiter landscapes. There's nothing more than the faint crunching of snow to suggest his footsteps, and all in all, he thinks that there's an aura of purity blanketing the world. In a way, although he wishes that the sky was red with blood—fiery and vengeful, the peaceful white fits his task, fits the date.

His watch, the last gift the Golden Boy bestowed upon anyone, readily states 3:23 a.m. of January 2, 1999. It's his heart that remembers today is the first anniversary of the Final Battle.

Various Ministry balls and "reformed Death Eater" feasts already began when the clock struck twelve. Everywhere, he imagines, wizarding citizens are leaving their homes, donning clothes too expensive for their bank accounts, heading toward parties they are not worthy of attending, parties hosted by scampering rich sycophants not worthy of Peter Pettigrew when it comes to understanding pain. The wizarding folks are waltzing across floors polished by the blood of those who died, drinking eggnog and wine made possible by the youths who fell under torture at age eighteen, and the wizarding folks are reciting magnificent speeches about the glory of victory in war—glory that never existed, not that the speech-givers would know. None of them are noticing the lack of War survivors at the parties—despite the heroes' presences being in high demand. All the party guests will snicker once the first crack is made about the Boy-Who-Lived, and they'll drop their acting, feeling safe in the knowledge that no one cares if the Boy-Who-Lived died or not. After all, that wasn't the _actual _point of the party…

"There was a War going on," everyone told him. He did not understand what the phrase meant, at first, but later on, he realized that the rest of the sentence was always left unspoken, silently understood by all who had never gone to battle. "There was a War going on, back then, so what more could you expect?" His understanding of the phrase now evokes a horror from deep within his soul, a horror that can be evoked because of the shred of morality and innocence he still possesses.

How can they answer, apathetically, "There was a War going on," in the face of the patch of burning flesh, which had once been his Dark Mark? For three days after the Dark Lord's second and final fall, his left arm felt as though the darkest of fires was ripping through it. The air smelled of burnt flesh and choked sobs, ones that not even his familiarity with torture could keep in. The mediwitch at St. Mungo's looked at him coldly. "How many times do we have to tell you Death Eaters, traitors or not, that we can't do anything for you?" She didn't even try to alleviate the pain, didn't even give him a room, leaving him to claw at his arm, before she turned to the next patient, a pompous Ministry official (the type that used to kiss the hems of the Malfoy family) who overdosed on a lust potion.

How can they answer, apathetically, "There was a War going on," when he bared his back in the chilly court room, displaying rows upon rows of organized gashes and lacerations, some that never healed, others that would scar forever? It was the week before the Final Battle at Hogwarts, when his aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange, discovered him smuggling maps of the Dark Lord's plans. With orders from the Dark Lord, she and her husband were zealously merciless toward him, casting Dark curses he never imagined existed. They literally flayed his skin using daggers, healed him, and then started all over again. Right before his rescuers fought their way into the fortress, Lucius—his own father who had taken him to his first ice cream parlor—whipped him until Draco whimpered pleas of mercy. The man cut everywhere but his face. "You can keep your Malfoy eyes and delicate Malfoy nose," he recalls Lucius' words, "but know that, while commoners admire your pretty face, befit for a true Malfoy, you know the deformities covered from the public eye, the ones that disown and shame you." When he recounted the story of his torture to the Ministry officials, one of the upstarts commented righteously, "Others suffered worse." _"So get over it," _was implied.

Even seeing the hate and malice in a father he once professed to love (_"Father," he lifted his eyes to match the ice blue chips, "if you ever need me, I'll…I'll give my life for you." A smile, the warmest one he ever saw on his father's face, was his reply. And he treasured that surprisingly Gryffindor moment forever.)_, was more bearable than when Draco limped—magically weak from apparition, physically weak from battle and dehydration, and emotionally weak from the figure he held in the circle of his arms—into the Hogsmeade shop. He was one of the first to escape the blood and gore that was the Final Battle, and he escaped holding the lifeless form of his love. He doesn't know what he looked like then, pushing through the door while cradling the corpse of the Savior, but he does remember the emotion in the glance of the shopkeeper's eyes. _"There's a War going on," _the glance seemed to say to the broken-hearted young man. It was a look that vanished the next instant, but he still recalls it clearly, because he's seen it many times since.

If it was punishment for a formerly arrogant, whiny little boy, or punishment for all the horrors he committed as a Death Eater, Draco would willingly accept it as his due. Only, he heard the same sentence thrown viciously at Mrs. Nymphadora Lupin, as she wept over the fallen bodies of Remus Lupin and Andromeda Tonks. He heard the same sentence repeated to Ron Weasley, when the redhead held the form of his crazed younger sister (Ginny was insane from the Carrow brothers' torture), glancing at the grave markers of seven other Weasleys.

Now, Draco kneels before a single, solemn grave marker, knees frozen in the snow. It's 3:30 a.m. of January 2nd, 1999.

…

**HARRY JAMES POTTER**

**July 31****st****, 1980 – January 2****nd****, 1998**

**SAVIOR OF THE WIZARDING WORLD**

**BELOVED BY FRIENDS AND FAMILY**

…

It figures, Draco thinks, that he is the only one here on the anniversary of the death of the Boy-Who-Lived. He understands the reasons of the other War survivors, but what excuse does the rest of the wizarding world have? "It's cold." "It's dangerous." "It's faraway." "There are parties to go to and social positions to maintain."

But, do they ever pause in their string of excuses, to recall that a 17-year-old boy named Harry Potter never cared about weather, or distance, or danger, or social position?

He feels a single tear slide down his cheek, dropping into the snow.

He _does _know the excuse the wizarding world claims.

"There was a war going on."

It's uttered in self-righteous indignation whenever he corners them, sneered delicately, as if they don't expect him to understand their reasoning, but they're irrefutably right anyways. They are right, in that he doesn't understand their reasoning.

What right does the world have, to give Harry an Order of Merlin, 1st Class, and pretend that the award no one cares about is a fair exchange for a man's life, talents, work, ambitions, dreams, and…love? What divine right does the world have, to eat pudding tonight, while snidely commenting, "There was a war going on," and to teach their lollipop-licking children to do the same?

Is this what the War was about, to sacrifice their lives doing a job no one else could do, and then to be thanked by being spit in the face and told that it had been the duties of the War heroes, to sacrifice, to be noble and valiant, to…die?

"It was done in self-interest. After all, it's not like you War heroes could have continued living without vanquishing Voldemort. (_'Now that he's safely in his grave, thanks to _us,_" Draco thinks, startled, 'everyone acts as if they never were afraid.') _So, it was in their self-interest to be injured, and to be hurt, and to die. Why should I," the twelve-year-old pronounces pointedly, "thank you for doing something selfishly?"

It hurt him, Draco admits, to know that the words left the mouth of—not a former Death Eater's child who had bought his way out of Azkaban—but a muggleborn who was the most cherished and brilliant student to enter Hogwarts since Albus Dumbledore.

The blond turns gray eyes back to the words "SAVIOR OF THE WIZARDING WORLD." Harry had wanted to save the innocent children of the next generation, ones that would be grateful and treasure the chance to live the lives he and Harry never had. Would Harry have died for the people who say, "There was a War going on"?

It's now 3:52 a.m.

There's still time to return to London, and attend the Minister's ball.

There's still time to watch that "brilliant" Hogwarts student graduate and ascend the ranks of the Wizarding world.

There's still time to witness the manifestation of another Dark Lord, rising among the ignorant wizards. (_And maybe no one will be stupid enough to die for the idiots again._)

…

There's still time for all of that and more, but, Draco decides, he doesn't want that time. Not anymore.

…

In the light of a full moon, as the rest of the magical world jokes and drinks Firewhiskey, no one watches the poisoned19-year-old young man crumple into the snow before Harry Potter's grave. The watch on his wrist reads: 3:59 a.m.

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**If you've read "Unwanted Time," please give me feedback. Thank you.**

I get the hunch that this was dragged out a little too long, all while the reader felt detached. When I re-read it, it didn't have the impact I wanted it to have, but I couldn't decide what was wrong with it.


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